


Dreams and Schemes

by Port_of_Morrow



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Early stages of their relationship, Fluff, M/M, Prompt Fill, Q being comforting, Very Insecure James
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-17
Updated: 2014-10-17
Packaged: 2018-02-21 13:12:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2469452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Port_of_Morrow/pseuds/Port_of_Morrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>00Q prompt : James tosses and turns in his sleep which drives Q, who needs to get all the sleep he can, up the wall. Q tries to find ways to get James to stop tossing and turning so much; but inevitably finds that cuddles are the best cure for everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreams and Schemes

It was at precisely 3.30am on the sixth night that Q had stayed over at James’s flat that he finally hit the last straw. Q awoke groggily in the morning’s early hours with a jerk, and then a horrid ache in the back of his calf. He pulled his hand under the cover to rub the pain out, only to be kicked again on the back of his thigh. With an indigant huff, the quartermaster tiredly swung his lethargic body from his boyfriend’s bed and staggered into the living room.

 

Bleary eyed and messy haired, and without his glasses, Q managed to set about the task of making himself a cup of tea. In the silence that followed, he could hear the blond agent still thrashing about on the sheets. Q was sick and - quite literally - tired of this. If the other things that 007 got up to with Q in that bed weren’t so goddamn amazing, Q would’ve brought up the topic sooner. But he let James be, as he - night after night - was woken up by the man’s thrashing, tossing and turning. Frankly, Q mused, as he sipped at his tea in the dimly lit kitchen, he was surprised that James wasn’t exhausted by lunchtime with a workout like that all through the night. And so, Q finished his tea and made his sleepy way back to James’s bed, in the hope that some act of God would allow the man to lie still for twenty minutes, so Q could fall asleep.

 

The following night, they wound up at James’s again. They were still in what many would annoyingly call “the honeymoon phase” - which for them consisted of James making horridly office-inappropriate remarks in Q’s office until the end of the day when Q would, quite calmly, suggest they get a cab back to the agent’s flat (Q’s was embarrassingly small and untidy) for a home cooked dinner and a shag. Romantic as ever - and James’s skillset often resulted in the latter being the better part of the evening.

 

On this day in particular, Q found it hard to keep his hands off James. Ofcourse he was still pissed off about last night, and this morning when the agent had decided to accompany Q in the shower (which resulted in a very wet-haired quartermaster having to make up an excuse to M about the tubes being delayed) - but Q had had a terrible day at work. He was all tension and frustration whereas James was all smoothness, calmness and seduction. Q fell for it, as he did every time, and by seven o clock they’d already had better sex than Q would ever expect for a Wednesday night.

 

“Still want dinner?” James spoke in a soft, tired grumble; one hand dancing over Q’s abdomen as he lay on his side, propped up by his elbow, next to the quartermaster.

 

Q was utterly smitten. “Yeah, I’ll do it tonight. You relax.”

 

“I’m not that old,” James grumbled as Q struggled into a pair of boxers and out into the kitchen.

 

And that was when Q set about making his concoction. He’d checked a few webpages before lunch for foods that would, according to some uncredited WikiHow article, make you sleep better. Walnuts, almonds, fresh lettuce and white rice were all on the list - so he extracted the ingredients from his satchel and set to work on an ad-hoc nut salad and lettuce risotto. James made his way into the kitchen twenty minutes later, leaving messy kisses on the back of Q’s neck before tucking into the dinner.

 

The quartermaster’s scheming was to no avail, for at four o’clock promptly he was awoken by the sheer fucking noise of James kicking the footboard of the bed. Q couldn’t quite believe how deep a sleeper James must be to sleep through that - so after several short bouts of sleep, started brewing a plan or two more.

 

“What the fuck is this?” James asked disapprovingly two nights later, studying the mug of golden-brown liquid on his bedside table.

 

“Tea.” Q said simply as he dressed into a loose fitting t-shirt and slid under James’s duvets.

 

The agent in question raised an eyebrow.

 

“Are you trying to drug me or something? Is this an aphrodisiac?” he huffed as he slumped down onto his bed, “Because I’m not quite sure I need it.”

 

The quartermaster snorted, “To which I can bear witness. It’s just tea, James, it’s nice.”

 

Of course, it was just tea. Chamomile sleepy-time tea with a spoonful of hot toddy honey stirred in.

 

James looked at the drink suspiciously as he sipped it slowly over the remainder of the evening. Though the sex that night was exceptionally good (which left the quartermaster wondering if chamomile did in fact have aphrodisiac qualities), Q found out that as well as bullets and failure, Mr Bond seemed impervious to the powers of sleepytime tea, and was just as restless as usual.

 

Q tried a variety of methods over the next few weeks - calming-scented air freshener, cutting out James’s alcohol consumption most nights, even suggesting they walk home after work, as to get thirty minutes of fresh air a day. Nothing seemed to work, and a week later, James was just as manically restless during his sleep as he was before. One Thursday afternoon over a coffee break, upon being asked why he looked so tired, Q decided to bite the bullet.

 

“It’s because of you James… I’ve tried everything but it’s like you’re training for a marathon whilst you sleep. It makes it fucking impossible to get more than a few hours a night with you thrashing about like a beached fish.”

 

James just looked at Q over his Americano, and then diverted his eyes away.

 

“Have I…  oh, fuck, I’m sorry, James,”

 

“Don’t be,” the agent snapped.

 

Q then fell silent. He swallowed a sip of his drink which was growing cold.

 

“I didn’t mean to upset you,”

 

“It’s not that,” James huffed.

 

“Well then tell me!” Q groaned back, “Because as much as I love you, James, I can’t keep putting up with this.

 

“You what?” the agent raised an eyebrow.

 

Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck and bollocks.

 

“I, er,” Q fiddled with the ripped paper of a sugar packet.

 

“Because, er, if you do really, um, love me, it makes this all a bit easier.”

 

Q had never heard James speak so quietly before.

 

“What does that mean?” The quartermaster was thankful for their relative privacy in their corner of this high street coffee shop.

 

“It means that I’ve been stressed… because I’m fucking scared of… it’s stupid…”

 

“James,”

 

“I’ve been scared of losing you.”

 

For two men employed in communication, they were hopelessly terrible at getting their points across.

 

“Every night I feel like… you could be gone the next morning. I don’t know, we’ve never put a label on this, you know?”

 

“Hey,” Q moved his hand to James’s chin, raising it so he could look the man in the eye. “I think of you as my boyfriend… even if you are an old sod.”

 

James smirked.

 

“I’m not going anywhere mate,” the brunet said quietly.

 

“You don’t have to be with me just because we had sex.”

 

“Oh you are a stupid git sometimes,” Q rolled his eyes, laughing dryly as he stood up. He disposed of his and James’s coffee cups in the bin and dragged the older man into the crisp October air outside.

 

“I don’t love you just because we have sex, James. I love you because you care about me - even though I know you think you don’t,” he sighed deeply, “Do you remember when I was having a real sugar-low a couple months ago, having a total strop and snapping at everyone in the branch?”

 

“Yeah,” James nodded.

 

“You were the only one who’d actually talk to me, who’d bother to find out that I’d been working so hard I hadn’t had time to eat, and then you brought me Jammy Dodgers. Which I’d only mentioned once,  _to Eve_ , that they were my favourite biscuit.”

 

Q watched as a small smile raised to James’s lips. “Yeah, well… I just wanted you to be okay.”

 

“No one else bothered, James,” Q sighed as he reassuringly held the agent’s wrist. “No one else texted me when I was sick or showed a shred of sympathy when my cat was in the hospital, or drove me home after Mallory’s party when I’d got blind drunk on tequila.”

 

James laughed, “You were a mess.”

 

“I  _was_  a mess,” Q agreed, “And you cleaned me up. So if you genuinely think that I only fancy you for sex then I’d suggest you go and get your head checked by medical.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, okay, point made” the blond conceded as he locked his fingers with Q’s.

 

“Good,” the quartermaster huffed, “I thought I’d have to start crying and quoting Hugh Grant movies to get you to see sense.”

 

“I’d love to see you do a posh accent,”

 

“Oh sod off,” he laughed, as they made their way back to work.

 

That night Q left the lettuce, the scented candles, the calming air freshener and the chamomile sodding tea in the cupboard, and tried out a new tactic. In the darkness and silence of James’s bedroom, just before the agent slipped into sleep, he tapped him on the shoulder.

 

“Hmm?”

 

Q tucked his body around James’s, resting a hand over the man’s breastbone.

 

“Love you, James. Properly.”

 

The agent encased his hand around Q’s, raising it to his lips and leaving a kiss on the younger man’s knuckles. “From everything you said earlier,” the agent yawned, “It appears that I love you as well. I do.”

 

And then they slept, and slept and slept. And the next morning, Q was only awoken by the gentle sound of the shower running. He’d finally fucking done it.

 

“Oi, are you joining? I’d expect so considering I’m your “boyfriend” now, right?” a semi-nude James poked his head from the en suite doorway.

 

Q had only given it a matter of days until James would start taking the absolute and total piss out of everything he’d said yesterday.

  
“You’re a right wanker,” Q quipped, before pulling off his sweatshirt and shorts and following the utterly maddening, perplexing and helplessly lovable agent into the bathroom.


End file.
